


you were supposed to be my light

by yaskiers



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Ableism, But Mostly Hurt, Flashbacks, Hallucinations, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Norse Mythology, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, because I've already written a series about this myth, but like really really vaguely, geralt is trying he really is, its pretty small though, unhealthy opinions about recovery from trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23296822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaskiers/pseuds/yaskiers
Summary: Jaskier thought, after the mountain, that he had truly hit rock bottom. That he had lost everything- his Witcher, his muse, his love, his happiness.He was wrong.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 30
Kudos: 160
Collections: these bitches gay! good for them!!





	you were supposed to be my light

**Author's Note:**

> title from "welly boots" by the amazing devil. 
> 
> (You were supposed to be my light  
> And keep me safe against them all  
> How could you leave me here ? you’ll scream)

He thought back to his time with Valdo Marx, the sweet whispers, the soft way he had told Jaskier he would mean nothing. Jaskier had believed him, for a time. 

Then he met Geralt, who- however unintentionally- helped him find himself. He lost himself in the stories of the Witcher, for years, knowing that no true harm could come to him while he was with him. 

And then the day on the mountain had happened, and Jaskier had been shattered once more. 

This time, there was no one to pick up the broken pieces. 

He had tried- singing songs from the good old days, steadily ignoring the way his heart _ached_. How it yearned for the Witcher. He traveled, and traveled, going as far away from that mountain as possible. The further away he was, he figured, the further away the memories would be. 

Until he wandered so far away that he lost the protection of the Witcher. It was common knowledge that the bard Jaskier was under Geralt of Rivia’s protection, and any harm that befell him would be dealt by Geralt twice over to whoever was stupid enough to inflict it. 

Until the months passed, and the bard was no longer the Witcher’s constant companion. Which made him an easy target.

*

He honestly wasn’t sure how exactly it happened- the events shrouded by the fog of drink. It wasn’t uncommon for him to drink himself halfway to death, a habit from his time at Oxenfurt that he had never managed to quite shake. 

All he knew for certain was that he had been grabbed, firm and harsh hands digging into his arms, making his skin crawl-

He had been dragged somewhere, for how long he didn’t know, to somewhere cold, and damp. He wasn thrown onto the floor, in complete darkness, his head hitting the ground so hard he saw stars. 

Someone had come in behind him, their footsteps echoing in the silence, but drowned out by the ringing in his ears. 

He felt himself being pulled up, and forced into a chair, chains binding his arms and legs, until he was sitting there, completely helpless. 

Hands cupped his face, so like Geralt’s, and yet _not._

And then,

_pain._

_The needle pierced him, and Jaskier_ screamed.

  
  


*

The first thing Jaskier registered when he woke was the _pain_ . It seared through him, every nerve on fire. His mouth, his mouth. He-he couldn’t breathe, he _couldn’t_ -

“Jaskier.” Geralt. When did Geralt get here? How did he-

He was hyperventilating now, the air not coming in, not enough. If he could have opened his mouth, he would have. 

“Jaskier, Jaskier look at me.” A gentle but firm grip was nudging his chin up (just like _Them_ ), and he looked up through blurred eyes, up at the Witcher. Geralt took his shaking, bloodstained hand in his own, and lay it gently on his chest. His heartbeat was slow, slower than Jask’s own, and certainly slower than what a normal human’s would have been. But it was calming. Grounding. “It’s going to be okay. Listen to me, okay?”

Geralt’s other hand came up to cup Jaskier’s jaw, his touch soft, softer than Jaskier could remember it being. As if he was worried he would hurt him, Jaskier thought. It was a bit late for that.

He tried to relax, years by Geralt’s side and playing doctor had taught him that the best thing to do when injured is to calm down. He listened to Geralt’s breaths, and tried to imagine that everything was fine. They were together, it was before the mountain, they were lying in an inn somewhere. Jaskier had just performed, they were safe, and they were happy.

Everything was fine.

No it wasn’t.

He was probably hallucinating, he had gone insane and he was seeing things. Geralt-Geralt wouldn’t have come for him, this was his mind playing tricks on him.

_He was alone, alone, alone, and no one was coming, Geralt wasn’t coming, Geralt_ hated _him, he would die alone in this filthy dungeon, drowning in his own blood-_

_Choking in his own blood, more like it._

_His mouth-_

_Oh Melitele above, his mouth-_

_He would never speak again- he would never_ sing _again_

_It was that thought which hurt more than the pain ever could._

_The way the needle had pierced him, the pain of the thread being_ pulled through his flesh

_He was dying, he was sure of it._

_Jaskier the bard, unwanted and alone, was going to die_

_Even if Julian Pankratz managed to escape, to get out, to survive-_

_He could never be a bard again. He could never do what he loved, he could never be the person he was born to be, the person he abandoned his family for_

_Who was he without his voice? It was bad enough without Geralt, without the muse he had loved, the muse who had thrown him away that day on the mountain-_

_But without his voice- his music?_

_He was no one._

_Better off dead._

Better off dead.

Better. Off. Dead.

He squeezed his eyes further shut, so hard that spots danced in his vision. This was a dream- or a hallucination.

This was not real.

Geralt wasn’t there, Geralt had abandoned him. 

His eyes remained closed when he was gently lifted from the chair, when the hair that had fallen into his face was brushed away by hands, familiar hands, hands he had held and kissed and knew like his own.

_Not real not real not real_

His eyes remained closed when he was picked up, strong arms carrying him easily, his head resting carefully on a shoulder

_Not real_

His eyes remained closed when warm air tickled his face, a light breeze that felt _so real-_

They stayed closed when he felt himself being put on a horse, the strong arms that had carried him letting him lean back on a firm chest, a familiar medallion pressed against the nape of his neck, surrounded by a presence he knew so well.

_Not real. Not real._

They didn’t stir when he was lowered onto a bed, so soft, so _different_ from the harsh, cold floor of the dungeon-

_Not. Real._

All he had to do was open his eyes, and he would see that he was in the dungeon. 

He opened his eyes. 

And Geralt was standing beside him, covered in blood, his long hair messy and tangled. He looked horrible. He looked _real_.

He was staring at Jaskier though, with that vulnerable expression that had always made Jaskier melt. 

His hallucinations were realistic, then, which made them so much worse.

Any moment, any second and he would wake up, to find himself chained to that fucking chair, alone in the dark, _wishing he was dead_ -

Geralt saw his open eyes, and knelt down by the bed ( _not real not real-_ ) slowly, as if Jaskier was one of his monsters, easily provoked and dangerous. 

“Jaskier I-” He seemed to struggle with himself for a moment. It was so like him, Jaskier could have cried. “I’m sorry. I truly am. What I said on the mountain- I can never forgive myself. And I can’t expect you to forgive me either.” He looked so honest, so vulnerable.

This was, frankly, the most emotional intelligence Jaskier had ever seen Geralt display. It was obviously part of his hallucination. But hallucination or not, Jaskier still yearned to comfort him. To tell him that yes, it had hurt. Yes, he was an asshole. 

But Jaskier still loved him, and he had forgiven him long ago. 

He couldn’t, though. Not- not like this. 

Jaskier pulled his arm from out of the cocoon of blankets he was in, and weakly reached for Geralt, his hand grasping for him. Geralt seemed to understand, and grasped it in his own. Jaskier squeezed, and he felt his lips unwillingly turn upwards. 

He immediately regretted his mistake, as a searing pain shot through him. He flinched, hard, and his hand flew towards his mouth. It came away bloody.

Geralt immediately grabbed a towel and some water, which had apparently been next to him the entire time. Jaskier also saw a knife.

“Forgive me,” Geralt said, as he gently took Jaskier’s hand and pulled it away from his face. He was talking about more than what was about to happen, and they both knew it. “this is going to hurt.”

*

It did.

( _And it was real_ )

  
  


*

Recovery was, well, _hard_. 

His lips healed fairly well, according to Triss. Yes, he had scars, and he hated them. They felt like a constant reminder, a constant reminder that he would never be the same- he would never be _whole_ , again. 

It was made worse because it was his fault. 

There was something wrong with him, something broken. Because even weeks, even months after the stitches were gone, he couldn’t speak. Triss said it was because of the trauma. 

Jaskier thought he was just weak. 

Compared to Geralt, who had more scars than Jaskier could count, he was nothing. Geralt recovered from injuries in days, and he couldn’t get over this, this _weakness_ in almost a year? Pathetic. 

He tried, he tried so hard. He tried at night, when Geralt lay in their bed in their house by the sea (Geralt had insisted, and Jaskier had cried) and everything was silent. He stood in front of the mirror in their room for hours, trying to force the words to come out-

Geralt would always catch him staring at his own reflection, hating himself. He would climb out of bed, come behind Jaskier and hug him, resting his chin on Jaskier’s shoulder. He would tangle their fingers together, and press a kiss to the side of Jaskier’s head. 

“You’ll get there, love.”

Jaskier would turn, drawing Geralt as close as he could, and wait until he felt those strong, familiar arms envelop him.

*

He didn’t deserve Geralt, honestly. He truly, truly didn’t. He was so patient with him. Somehow, Geralt always seemed to understand him. It was like when they were younger, and Jaskier had been able to decipher every “Hmm” or hum that Geralt made. 

He always knew what Jaskier needed, and Jaskier loved him for it. 

*

The day Jaskier spoke again was the day he got married.

*

It had been a dream, something he had vaguely thought about but never quite thought possible. Geralt proposed to him by the sea, his hair whipping in the wind, and Jaskier thought at that moment that he may be an angel. He said yes, of course.

*

The ceremony was to be small, with only their closest friends present. Yennefer had taken over the preparations, her only reaction to the news of their engagement a smile and “ _finally_ , you idiots. Triss and I have had bets going for years now.”

It was a dream. 

Until it turned into a nightmare. 

*

Because the first time Jaskier spoke, the first time he said Geralt’s name in _years_.

Was his scream as his fiancé (his _almost husband_ they had been _so close-_ ) was run through. 

The blood covering his hands as he held his Witcher, holding him close, as his tears threatened to blur his vision. “Geralt, Geralt- I-” he stuttered, hating that he couldn’t even say goodbye properly. 

Geralt smiled, his mouth full of blood. Jaskier felt sick. 

“Oh dear heart,” Geralt said, his voice so full of love. “It’s okay. I love you, my bard. It’s not- not your fault.”

The howl of anguish Jaskier let out as his fiancé died in his arms was indescribable. 

*

At Geralt’s funeral, Jaskier finally spoke. It wasn’t much ( _not what Geralt deserved, he deserved so much better-_ )

As the casket fell down into the earth, Jaskier dropped his bundle of dandelions ( _Geralt said he loved them because they reminded him of Jaskier, once_ ) on the ground, his eyes filling yet again. 

He knelt, his chest feeling so heavy he couldn’t breathe, and he was thrown back to the dungeons from so long ago, helpless and alone.

*

Except this time, Geralt truly wasn’t coming. 

“I’m sorry.” His whisper was soft.

He clutched Geralt’s medallion, given to him the night before his death- 

*

_Geralt smiled, his hands cupping Jaskier’s face. “This, this used to be the most important thing in my life. It meant that I belonged somewhere, that I had a home.” He pulled off the medallion, pressing it into Jaskier’s hands, and folding them gently over it._

_“But now you’re my home. You always have been, it just took me so long to see it. It’s yours.”_

  
*

Jaskier buried his face in his hands and sobbed, letting the grief take over. It was yet another one of those nights, when he felt so alone he thought he might die. He was clutching Geralt’s medallion like a lifeline, trying to stay afloat-

He didn’t deserve to be there. Not when Geralt was dead. It should have been him, it was always going to be him. 

He burned his lute that night. 

The lute- his first gift from his travels with Geralt, a constant reminder of all that he had lost. His music, his voice, and his Witcher. 

He threw it into the fireplace, watching it slowly be engulfed by the flames. 

He was broken, he thought. For what was a teller of tales without a tale to tell?

What worth was a bard without a voice?

The lute crumbled in the flames, and a part of him thought it must be fitting.

  
  
*  
  


_The bard followed his Witcher, forever, and always._

Julian Alfred Pankratz died a year after Geralt of Rivia.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> so. um.
> 
> yeah :)
> 
> this was supposed to be norse mythology inspired, but honestly I just took the vaguest part of the myth and ran with it- for two main reasons: 1, I have an entire series dedicated to this myth, and it felt wrong to write something too similar to that. 2, that would require writing Jaskier as Loki, which is just. Wrong. (To me, at least. idk)
> 
> As for my thought process in writing this fic, here are two real conversations I had while writing this:
> 
> me: should I just do the mouth sewn one?  
> friend: i mean why not  
> me, an evil genius: yes!!! because what better way is there to hurt a bard than to steal their voice omg this is perfect  
> my friend: i hate you.  
> my friend: do it
> 
> me: geralt has too much emotional intelligence wtf do i do  
> me: its not like him its so out of character and I haven't even mentioned ciri so i cant blame her for him suddenly knowing how to deal with emotions  
> my friend, asleep because its 3:27am:  
> me: IM GONNA KILL HIM
> 
> (yes i know geralt is pretty ooc in this and im sorry, but i needed some comfort or i would've just cried and never actually written this)
> 
> anyways, as always; comments and kudos give me life!
> 
> yell at me on twitter lmao @trissifer :)  
> thanks for reading!


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